


help me stand (before I fade)

by lilabut



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-05 01:50:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5356421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilabut/pseuds/lilabut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>An unexpected and foreign veil of sadness clings to her at the idea of him having no friends at all.</i> </p><p>Carol and Daryl's paths cross as they try to escape their pain - if only for a few hours. She shares her sanctuary. The river. The grass. The silence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I honestly have no clue where this came from. I only just started watching the show a little while ago and haven't even watched season 6 yet. Hell, I have barely read and fics, yet. Also, Carol and Daryl are not really the ship that makes me long for AUs (since one of my favorite AUs is the one they are already living in coughzombiescough). 
> 
> But as Leo DiCaprio said: the most resilient parasite is an idea, and this one would just not let me go. The result is a lengthy drabble, a high school AU that does not take place in school.

One of her tears slips past her jaw, tickles on its descend along the curve of her throat. It is an unwelcome distraction; she is too beat to lift her hand to brush the teardrop away. Instead, she ignores the irritating itch, just as she pretends not to feel the dull ache throbbing in her left wrist.

 

The black and blue that stains the skin there - where it is meant to be pale, freckled and soft - is the thing she can not hide. She can tug restlessly at her blouse's sleeve, until the fabric covers the hideous memento from last night. But it remains, and Carol can see it with her eyes closed.

 

Sand has crept its way beneath her short fingernails, and she feels the damp grains rough against her skin when she finally bothers to wipe the tear away just as it soaks into the collar of her blouse. Blue as soft as a spring sky turns translucent. Cold.

 

Just a few feet from where her sneakers are toeing the grass, the small river laps eagerly at the smooth stones that she likes to pull out sometimes. When the late days of spring roll in and the heat begins to soak into every cursed layer of her skin, Carol can imagine nothing more soothing than the cool water engulfing her hands, fingers turning almost numb within the current. The slick, smooth stones slipping in between her fingers.

 

She has no eyes for the stones now. Summer has come and gone, autumn beginning to claim the woods around her. Here, she is all alone, a mile away from the nearest road. And still, as her eyes fall to the fingerprints of black and blue that peek out from beneath her sleeve, she does not _feel_ alone. It is as if Ed is right behind her, hands heavily on her shoulders, pressing her into the ground until she has disappears.

 

She thinks she might be fading away already. She is less of who she was last night, only a fraction of who she was last month; who was she a year ago?

 

Anger begins to boil inside of her at the thought, and she pushes up her sleeve almost frantically, pressing her own fingertips deftly into the bruises, as if the pain will burn them away.

 

 

A sudden rustling in the mess of bushes and trees behind her takes her off guard, and she twists her upper body into the general direction of the sound so much that her ribs ache from the odd angle. The sharp intake of breath that burns in her lungs comes hand in hand with the rapid fire beating of her heart.

 

And then she calms down a little. Standing there, staring at her just as taken aback as she must be, almost fading into the trees, is Daryl Dixon. He is holding a crossbow, and, while it's simply dangling inches above the ground and seems to be unloaded, Carol eyes it with concern.

 

The way he suddenly props it against the nearest tree tells her that he must have noticed.

 

What happens after is quick, so brief she almost misses it, but there is no denying the way his eyes shift down. It makes her feel cold and exposed, and she roughly pulls down the sleeve of her blouse. But when she looks up again, she knows he saw.

 

As she hastily wipes away the tears that have left their shiny, treacherous trails on her cheeks, she notices something she did not expect. There is no pity in his eyes, no ignorance, neither. She doubts he even remembers her name (they were in the same English class last year, but only for a few months), but when she looks into his eyes almost defiantly, something seems to dawn on him. He almost looks _upset_ , and Carol struggles to understand what that means. But then the moment is over, and Daryl drops his gaze to his heavy boots, instead.

 

 _M'sorry. Didn't mean to scare ya'_. It takes Carol a second, but when she realizes that those sort-of-seven words are the most she has ever heard him speak, she is slightly surprised. His voice is different from how she expected. Softer, in a way, although she can not quite put her finger on it. It almost does not seem to suit him. With his dark, shaggy hair, and dirty clothes. Not with the name Dixon, not when his father is the man he is, not with his big brother Merle, not with all the whispers of drugs and fights and bad blood.

 

Everybody in town knows Daryl Dixon. Or, Carol contemplates, they presume they do. After all, everybody thinks they know Ed, she realizes sourly. And they surely do not.

 

 _It's all right, Daryl_ , she replies, and it is.

 

There is a brief but awkward pause; the silence that settles between them is such uncharted territory that Carol even finds interest in the way Daryl kicks his boots against the stump of a tree.

 

 _You okay?_ His question comes out of nowhere. She would have expected him to just march off back into the woods, racing down squirrels or whatever else he was doing out here - she has not even the slightest clue about hunting. Or him.

 

 _Sure_ , she answers, much too quickly, and even she can hear the phony edge to her voice. Thank God he doesn't know me, Carol thinks, wordlessly turning back to face the river.

 

Nothing happens for a good long minute, and Carol is sure he has taken off into the woods. Deep down, she prays he will not mention their brief encounter to anyone - if Ed found out about this small sanctuary she has discovered for herself, where else would she have left to go? Then again, who would he tell? Perhaps it is only another assumption, but she can not recall ever seeing him in anyone's company at school. He keeps to himself. An unexpected and foreign veil of sadness clings to her at the idea of him having no friends at all.

 

When he sits down next to her all of a sudden, patched-up knees pulled up against his chest, keeping a good arm's length between them, she marvels at how quiet his footfalls have been. Curiously, she looks up, forgetting about the red that surely tints her still glossy eyes. _Carol, right?_ The question that falls from his lips is shy, and the gentle smile that curls her lips in response comes easily to her. She nods, silently, albeit being slightly impressed.

 

Strands of dark hair cover half of his face, grown out without any apparent attempt to control or tame it. It is a shame, she admits. Looking at his face now, up close for the first time, she spots nothing to be hidden. That same instant, her fingers ghost over her covered wrist, and she realizes there are too many things a person can hide that can not be seen with the eyes, one way or another.

 

 _Were you hunting?_ Carol asks, uncertain what to make of his presence. He mumbles in agreement, dirty fingers grazing along a white flower growing near his thigh. The petals are delicate, pretty. Briefly, she wonders what its name is, then drops the thought.

 

 _Any success?_ she presses further, digging her palms into the grass on either side of her.

 

 _Wasn't really tryin'_. Daryl looks up towards her then, but he focuses on some point next to her head, openly avoiding her eyes. There is an aura of shyness, of vulnerability around him, and Carol wonders why she has never noticed before - then again, she has never really bothered. But she stares at him now, trying to solve the puzzle that makes up Daryl.

 

 _Just walking around then?_ The smile she offers him is more genuine than she thought herself capable, but it does little to ease the unpleasant tension between them. His only reply is the slight shrug of his shoulders. It nags her, the silence. Why did he stay when he was only going to be this quiet and tense? Why did he stay at all? _I was just_ sitting _around_ , she admits, all of the air leaving her lungs in a rush, and the smile is wiped cleanly off her face. She drops the mask. Makes the choice, and stares back into the river.

 

 _Nice place to sit 'round_ , Daryl says after another minute has passed in silence, and this time, it sounds less as though he's chewing on his tongue when he speaks. Carol does not look back up, but as the silence is broken, she feels a weight lifting slowly but steadily off her shoulders.

 

 _I come here every Saturday_ , she tells him, and the second the words tumble out of her mouth, she wants to groan at herself for spilling her secret. It is too late now, though, and so, against her will, she keeps talking. _Found it once when my sister's dog bolted. We never found him, but I found this place._ He walked into her sanctuary by accident, and now she accidentally made him a part of it. When she does look up, finally, and sees the way he eyes her with raw curiosity, eyes and lips and jaw softer and less set, she wonders how bad of a mistake it really was.

 

Every Saturday, Ed's parents took him halfway across the state to visit his grandparents. It was a tradition in his family as rock solid as Thanksgiving dinner and Christmas morning. And so, once his shining armor had been shed to give way to the truth below, these mornings have become her safe harbor. The only hours of the week she feels safe and hidden from his ever following glare.

 

Daryl grants her a small, meager version of a smile, but it lights up his face, brings a shine to his eyes that almost makes her forget the rugged state of... well, the rest of him. It is a true smile, careful as it is. He must have noticed the change in her features, she is sure. Then, briefly, his eyes flicker down to the patch of grass between them, where her pale fingers dance along the tickling grass.

 

 _Fell last night_ , she lies, and Daryl looks back up a little too quickly, as though she caught him stealing. She half expects that she scared him off, that he will go back to staring right through her, or at the trees that grow tall behind her.

 

He does not. Instead, he seems to tense up even more than before, his hands tightening where they are wrapped around his knees. As the white of his knuckles comes through, Carol recognizes the anger that has replaced his weak smile. It is her own.

 

It makes no sense at all. For him to be angry.

 

For all the confusion it causes, it still arouses something inside her, the glint in his eyes, the purse of his lips. The fire that had begun to boil just beneath the surface of her skin just before he had burst into the small clearing, it slowly stirs back to life. She does not claw at her sleeve this time, but she does not shy away when Daryl meets her gaze again, either.

 

 

For some reason, she finally stands her ground.

 

. . .

 

He offers to walk her back to her car later, when the sun has reached its highest climb in the sky. Clouds are beginning to speckle the blue canvas, white and scattered far apart. They walk through the woods in silence, and this time, Carol does not feel suffocated by it. Something about the slow steps through the undergrowth, the steady rhythm of their breaths in the shades of the trees, the crackling of twigs and the rustling of leafs is comforting. It is simple.

 

They linger by the side of the empty road, dust settling on the asphalt. Carol slips her fingers through the loop that holds her keys together, propping her side against the driver's door of her car. Maybe he is just as unwilling to break the silence, the one that holds the new and exciting serenity she has found in it.

 

He clears his throat, and she is surprised when he reaches across the distance, the white flower from before held up in his hand. As she takes it, feeling the rough callouses of his fingers and the soft petals of the flower, Carol smiles up at him, brighter than before. She feels the stretch in her muscles, and the smile tickles all the way down her spine, lifts the hairs at the base of her skull, floods energy through her veins.

 

Daryl blushes all sorts of red at the sight, and she finds it endearing to watch, the way he shelters himself behind his leather vest, messy hair and heavy crossbow slung across his shoulder.

 

 _Thank you_ , she whispers, afraid to speak the words too loudly, cautious that the fragile peace she just felt might shatter into fine dust in the palm of her hand.

 

_What for?_

 

(he knows she isn't talking about the nameless flower.)

 

. . .

 

He is back the next Saturday.

 

 

 

 

And every Saturday after that.


	2. two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be a oneshot. I'm weak. Here we go.

It is a slow, laborious task, chipping away at the bricks he has layered around himself. A tower too high to climb. There is little reward despite the occasional stolen smile, and a slowly growing list of odds and ends she comes to learn about him (but heavens, it is enough to hear him laugh every once upon a blue moon, to be sure that she is the _only one_ who knows these little pieces of random information which, added up, create the whole of him). Piece by piece, the walls come down, enough for her to catch a glimpse at the truth, yet never quite enough for her to find a way in. He will not let her, struggles against the restraints he has tied around himself.

 

Carol does not need to see his scars to know they are there, hidden more plainly beneath patched-up shirts and thick leather. They are written in bold letters all over him, in the way he sometimes jumps at loud noises, in the straying of his gaze when she dares to look into his eyes for too long. He runs and hides when she finds her way too close to the core.

 

But the unexpected gift of seeing through him is not solely hers. He, too, can see her own scars, no matter how careful Ed is to leave them in places she can easily hide and maintain the pale, porcelain facade. Daryl notices them in the way she tenses her shoulders some days, when her step is uneven, in small movements that do not fit into the pattern that makes her up.

 

They know what happens behind closed doors when they part each Saturday, and there is no need to talk about it. Words would only be a ripple in the current that drags them further and further down.

 

What they _need_ , is to learn how to swim, how to push against it.

 

. . .

 

The weathered poncho Daryl has been wearing over his usual vest for a few weeks now (since the constant humidity had given way to a sharper, more piercing breeze) is spread out across the ground, earth and dying grass crunching beneath the weight.

 

It shields their bodies from the cold that has infected the ground like a disease, Carol's legs pulled up against her chest, scarf wrapped lazily around her neck, fingers toying with a loose string on a knitted glove.

 

They have to sit closer than usual, huddled together on the makeshift blanket. More than once, their legs bump into one another, sending a rush of blood straight to Daryl's face. It's a sweet sight, but Carol pretends she does not notice, and spares him the embarrassment.

 

Between their booted feet, a thermos of coffee releases twirls of steam into the air, a dance they both follow for a long while. The crunch of paper is a comfort, and from the corner of her eyes, Carol watches as Daryl stuffs the last crumb of his sandwich into his mouth.

 

He is a little rough around the edges, never really clean, and when he eats, Carol has to suppress a genuine giggle once in a while. Still, she brings food to their spot every Saturday (it has been _their_ spot for a while now, although Carol can not pinpoint exactly when it stopped being just _hers_ ). Leftovers, sandwiches, muffins that are still warm to the touch and melt in their mouths, cookies that crumble between their fingers. Daryl never refuses, but she can still detect the hesitation every time.

 

It is not food he struggles to accept. It is kindness.

 

(she wonders often what he eats at home; surely nobody cooks for him, and surely he has nobody to cook for and share a meal with.)

 

The thought alone makes her scoot a little closer towards him - ignoring the nervous fidgeting of his fingers that it arouses. One more sweet reaction she ignores for his benefit. And, just perhaps, for her own, as well.

 

_Just wanna leave this place_ , Daryl mutters through the last bite of his sandwich, picking up the conversation they had allowed to drift off into silence in favor of food earlier. Carol understands; this place is its own type of prison for the both of them.

 

The coffee burns on Carol's tongue, the same way the honest words most likely blaze like wildfire on Daryl's. _You can._

 

He huffs, an odd combination of insincere laughter and ridicule. _And what am I goin' to do?_ The question is loaded and laps at the wounds he so meticulously attempts to keep from her. Continuing, his voice is brimming with anger that is directed at nobody in particular, but consumes him nonetheless. The future is painted in dull, monochrome colors as he talks himself into a dark corner. How he will probably only ever follow his brother around once he returns home, or how nothing will ever become of him, drifting through life from day to day ( _gonna be just nothing, s' who I am_ ).

 

Carol can see him falling, spiraling down, down, down to a place so deep that he will never even hit rock bottom. With nothing to remind him that there is always a way back up. _Stop_ , she interrupts him harshly, setting down the coffee cup, sparing not even the briefest thought to the loss of warmth. _None of that's true. You're not nobody_. It's a bold move, but she reaches out and deftly takes his hand. Beneath the thick wool of her glove, she can not feel him, but he does not pull away, and that, she decides, is enough. _You're worth something. All you have to do is earn your place._

 

Daryl swallows, his gaze flickering briefly between her face and their awkwardly joined hands before he stares down at the mud-caked laces of his boots. For a second, Carol fears she has lost him, that she stepped over a line they have drawn in bright red ink. Then he turns his hand, palm facing hers, and squeezes. Just barely.

 

Encouraged, Carol goes on. _You don't have to be like-_ She bites her tongue.

 

_Like my old man?_ Daryl finishes the sentence for her, voice bereft of any emotion. Carefully, Carol studies his profile, clear eyes pointed blankly ahead, jaw tight, a slight shadow where he's growing a beard. He is all softness marked with hard edges, and she wants to smooth them away with the pad of her thumb.

 

_Sorry_ , she whispers instead, looking down at her knees, embarrassment washing over her. She has gone too far this time.

 

Merely a handful of seconds pass before Daryl gently nudges his elbow against her knee. _S' okay_ , he reassures her, and Carol is grateful for the strained smile he offers her. _You can leave, too, y' know_ , he adds quietly, voice suddenly more sincere than what she has come to expect. The pressure of his hand against hers suddenly feels overwhelming.

 

When she replies, Carol can feel strings around her wrists and clammy fingers curling around her throat. _We both could._ Their smiles fade, but they hold each others gaze for a long while.

 

Until the moment passes.

 

. . .

 

Lips and limbs trembling from being immobile in the cold for too long, Carol checks her watch for the third time in the last ten minutes. It is well past noon now, and an uneasy restlessness is creeping into her bones. It causes her skin to prickle and her heart to drum loudly in her ears.

 

He is late. Too late.

 

There is no mirror, but Carol is convinced her lips are tinted blue. The tips of her fingers feel numb, even though she has buried them in the pockets of her thick coat.

 

Christmas is only two weeks away, and despite the twinkling lights in red and green that have been strung all over town, the sparkling crystals of white snow and the well-known songs that echo from every passing car and cracked open window, Carol has never felt less festive.

 

Where is he? For months, their routine has been uninterrupted. For him to simply not show up now... Something must be wrong.

 

As she treks her way back through the maze of trees, Carol desperately tries to grasp at even the slightest trace of an idea on how to check on him. Sure, she knows where he lives, but to show up on his doorstep would ruin them both for different reasons (they are a lot more similar than she dares to admit). He has no phone, so a simple call is out of the question.

 

Snow crunches beneath her boots, footprints swallowed by the mess of frozen leafs and twigs that are scattered across the forest ground. Perhaps he's just sick, she wonders, scrunching up her nose as breathing in the cold air becomes more and more painful. A million excuses and explanations drift through her head, none of them as reassuring as she would like.

 

The driver's seat is freezing cold when she finally climbs into her car. Gloved fingers fumble with the key, and Carol hesitates when the engine eventually roars to life. She stares at the road ahead, hoping that maybe he will walk up the slippery road, after all.

 

 

 

As Ed steers and parades her around the school on Monday, a heavy arm draped across her shoulders to pull her against his side, Carol keeps her eyes wide open. Hoping to spot Daryl somewhere, hidden in an empty hallway, sitting on his own, she hardly listens to Ed's ramblings.

 

But he is nowhere to be found.

 

If she cranes her neck just right, she can see his locker from where she stuffs her books into her own, but she doesn't spot him once all day. He's not in the cafeteria, carrying away his tray to some far away corner where he eats on his own. His bike isn't in the parking lot, either.

 

 

When she gets home that afternoon, Carol hastily digs through the stack of old magazines and catalogs that have been abandoned by the fireplace, until she finds the outdated and worn phone book nobody has used in years. Sitting on the floor next to the crackling fire, Carol flips through the thin pages, trailing her fingertip down the list of 'D' names until she spots what she is looking for.

 

Quietly, she rips the page from the book, folds it neatly and hides it away in her pocket. She has no clue if the number still works, but as she shuts the door to her room and looks at the dried and pressed flower that is framed on top of her dresser (a cherokee rose, he told her one especially mild morning, her fingers tracing white petals), she makes a decision. If she can not find him tomorrow, she will make the call.

 

 

She never has to.

 

 

When she walks past him in the parking lot on Tuesday morning, her heart grows wings, an unprecedented rush of relief washing over her that returns a long forgotten lightness to her step. He's unclasping his bag from his bike, and looks up as she walks by.

 

Blue and purple stains the skin around his left eye, only partially hidden beneath the mess of his hair, and she wants to scream into the morning commotion and drag him away. But from her peripheral vision, she can see Ed's car pulling up, and so the only thing she can do is hold Daryl's gaze for a second longer than she deems safe as she keeps walking.

 

Daryl nods curtly, but Carol understands enough to recognize it as reassurance. Feeling brave, she grants him a chaste smile, her lips aching to stretch further. A familiar voice calls her name then, and Daryl quickly turns his attention back towards his bike.

 

By the time Andrea reaches her, Carol has lost sight of him.

 

. . .

 

_S' not much._ The small gift he nervously shoves into her hand is wrapped messily in brown paper, an orange ribbon tied around it that seems more appropriate for some sort of Halloween decoration. But Carol feels her heart and stomach flutter nonetheless.

 

Clutching the small box protectively to her chest, she leans towards him. Before he has the chance to pull away, she quickly breaches the distance and presses her cold lips against his cheek. Beneath her chaste but determined touch, he goes rigid, stops breathing for an infinite second until all the air seems to rush out of him. _Merry late Christmas_ , she whispers, paints the words against his scruffy cheek.

 

He swallows hard, throat bobbing, and she hopes he can feel the stretch of her smile before she carefully nudges the fading bruises under his eye with her nose. The sight has burnt itself into her memory, every distinct and ugly shade of blue, purple and green that marks him. _You ain't going t' open it?_ he asks, voice a little unsteady when she pulls away, arm flailing a little awkwardly as he points to the gift.

 

Her smile is reflected in his blue eyes, contagious as he grants her a rare one of his own. He looks younger when he smiles, less worn down by the world, and Carol hopes he knows how much she cherishes the real gift he has given her: that he allows her a glimpse at him in this way.

 

As the ribbon flutters swiftly down towards the snow-covered ground, Carol realizes that this is the first time in a long while that she is actually excited about the new year waiting with big signs and neon lights just around the corner.

 

. . .

 

The flicker of enthusiasm and hope burns like a delicate flame, carrying her through the months of winter. In the storm of her life, it wavers and threatens to disappear, but Daryl won't allow it. She won't allow it. They breathe air into it, shield it with trembling hands.

 

Yet all their work, the scarce words of encouragement, the hesitant smiles and the brief moments of truth, they are all in vain, in the end. The flame is suffocated as suddenly as Carol had discovered it, just as spring begins to fully unfold its bloom of vibrant colors.

 

The world shines in green, pink, purple and yellow hues that are smooth and soft and gentle. But her world comes crushing down, turns into the rusty wreckage of what was once hope.

 

 

Her tongue wipes away the saltiness of her tears, a taste Carol has come to dread, yet one that is all too familiar. So familiar indeed that it has a comfort to it that she resents. Eyes throbbing and bloodshot, she digs her fingers into the damp grass beneath her until the earth forces its way beneath her nails, until the pads of her fingers begin to feel numb from the force.

 

Everything seems to have shifted, and she struggles to find a grip, anything to hold onto.

 

 

 

_Carol?_ Her name lingers on Daryl's lips as he crouches down next to her, mindlessly dropping his bag onto the ground with a heavy thud. Briefly, she wonders what's in there, but she can not find the strength inside her to keep caring long enough to find out.

 

He sits closer to her than he would usually dare, a shy hand reaching out to rest on her shoulder. His touch is warm, gentle, the pad of his thumb moving in small, soothing circles. Carol feels a fresh wave of tears brimming in her eyes; he gives her so much with so little effort, that she wonders what she has ever offered him in return. Of course, he'd never demand a thing from her, but she suddenly realizes just how much she owes him.

 

It is a feeling she wants to claw out of her mind and heart, no matter the amount of blood she sheds in the process. There is enough guilt and shame leaking from every crack of her broken shell. She should have stayed away. Should have walked away the day he stumbled upon her crying the first time, all those months ago. A lifetime ago.

 

Not a single tear has been shed in his presence since then. Carol bites them back now, almost angrily, red heat flaming inside of her.

 

_I'm pregnant._ Saying the words makes it real, more real and palpable than a dozen pink plus signs ever could. Looking up, she stares at Daryl almost defiantly, silently begging him to chastise her for this, to shout and blame her for what has happened.

 

But in his eyes, all she can find is sadness. Not for himself, she assumes. It is a compassionate sadness so close to pity that she wants to walk into the river and disappear, let the current wash her away, layer after layer.

 

Instead, she finds herself searching through the depth's of Daryl's eyes when he does not shy away. There, beneath swirls of blue and gray that remind her of the ocean as much as the bitter cold sky of winter, she stumbles upon something unexpected: her own reflection. The longer she looks upon it, the more it seems to morph into somebody else. Not the girl whose eyes are lined with red, not a girl who is pale with the weight of the world. She sees somebody else, somebody who has grown wings over the past few months. She can see what Daryl sees, what she has fought and struggled against accepting out of fear of the consequences.

 

_He can't know_ , she hears herself saying, voice thickened by the sobs she refuses to release, but determined to the point they echo coldly in the rustling of the forest and steady stream of the river. _Nobody can know_. Graduation is only a few months away, dancing at the edge of her fingers, freedom just out of reach. She will not let it flutter away into a world she would forever be shut out of. Not this time.

 

The sadness in Daryl's eyes hardens into the same determination she feels swelling so rapidly inside of her, as if it had been waiting all her life to burst free. Without any shyness, he moves his hand from her shoulder to her cheek, a calloused palm cupping her damp skin.

 

_I won't let him have this_ , Carol goes on, the well of pent-up anger and despair bursting open. She curls her dirt-smudged fingers around Daryl's wrist - not to pull away from his grasp, but to hold him there. _I won't let this be another thing he takes from me._ He nods at her words, a silent agreement, lifting his other hand to join the first.

 

Carol inhales a sharp breath, her throat burning, and the last tears spill over in defeat as she allows herself to fall.

 

_He ruined my life_ , she hears herself saying, words muffled as her heads falls against Daryl's shoulder. His fingers move into her hair, hold the back of her head to keep her steady. She realizes, as her fingers find his shirt and curl limply into the thin material, that this is the first time she has openly acknowledged everything Ed has done to her. To anyone.

 

Daryl's heart beats steadily beneath the cage of his chest, drumming against her ear in a soothing, unfamiliar rhythm. When he speaks, Carol can feel his words vibrating in his throat.  _He won't ruin this._


	3. three.

The skin around her cheekbone is throbbing, hastily wiped away blood drying around her nostrils, creating an itch she does not dare to scratch. A headache is beginning to pulse relentlessly against the inside of her skull, a horridly repetitive drumming that presses into her brain.

 

It is a beautiful night, a soft warm breeze ruffling through the luscious green leafs of the trees. Crickets are filling the quiet with their song, the full moon illuminating the world below in a clear, white light. Not a single cloud spoiling the sky.

 

Even the stars seem to mock her with their peaceful serenity, pinned against the black canvas of the sky like diamonds.

 

Carol takes in the house before her. It's a sad sight, run down, patched up, cramped, off the pebble road that leads through the thick of the forest, far away from the bustle of the town. On her way around, she had noticed an open window, the sounds of a television blaring into the night. A motorcycle was propped up against a wall (it belongs to Merle, Daryl told her once, but the older brother she has seen around town a few unpleasant times is locked up – again).

 

Now, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, Carol musters one of the windows at the back. It's shut, but a sliver of light peaks through a crack in the flannel curtains. Beneath the window, a small dumpster is pushed against the wall, loaded so much that the lid does not quite close. It is her one and only clue, a thin string of hope she clings to, brittle reassurance that she is not making a terrible mistake.

 

Months ago, Daryl had told her he would sometimes sneak out of the house at night, to get away (there had been no need to ask why, the answer written plainly across his face). _Fell into the dumpster once_ , he'd said with a blush heating up his cheeks. _Merle didn't shut it, it's right under my window_ (they'd both laughed, and she remembers the tickling rush of joy even now).

 

It has to be his room, Carol reassures herself, walking up towards the house. It is a bad idea, and she knows it, the risk so infinitely large for the both of them. But where else can she go now?

 

Stretching as far as she can, feet lifting off the ground until only her toes keep her steady, Carol carefully taps against the window. Once. Twice. Three times. Her pulse jackhammers throughout her body, hands curling into fists protectively.

 

She could always run, she considers, already turning her head towards the woods. She could always disappear into the trees.

 

How long would it take before anyone found her?

 

The window opens with squeaky hinges before she can move to find out, yellow light blinding her as the curtains pull away.

 

_Carol?_ Daryl whispers into the night, surprise and worry equal in his voice. When their gazes meet, she can see the terror in his eyes as they adjust to the odd mixture of darkness, moonlight and the milky light bulb from his room. _God._

 

_Can I come in?_ Carol asks quietly, still terrified of being caught. Daryl gives her a brisk nod, reaching out of the window further, stretching his bare arms towards her to assist.

 

_Climb up._

 

As he helps her through the window, a steady grip on her shoulders, Carol curls her fingers around his arms, ducking her head. With a quiet _thud_ her feet eventually land on the ground, the curtain tickling her neck as it falls lazily back into place.

 

Daryl moves quickly to shut the window and curtains, but then his hands are back on her arms, a touch so light Carol barely feels it through her shirt. Nervous fingers find and trace her face, not touching the aggravated skin, but skimming along the carnage.

 

_I broke up with Ed_ , Carol reveals, her voice a cracked whisper. It only occurs to her now that she really did it, finally stepped up and made a move. She wins. Saying it to Daryl makes it more real than the pain and the blood with which she has paid for her courage.

 

_Son of a bitch_ , Daryl growls, the fingers on her arm tightening their grip just barely, and there is white hot anger flaring in his eyes. Carol reaches out for him, a flat palm pressing like a flower just above his heart. Shaking her head, she hopes to make him understand. This chapter is closed; vengeance, as sweet as it may be, would not be part of her story. Daryl swallows hard, and the anger slowly softens. _Y' okay?_ he mutters, eyes flickering down towards her stomach.

 

Carol nods, her own hand moving down towards the small, barely noticeable swell of her abdomen. She keeps her hand there, hovering, holding on to the only thing that matters. _I can't go home like this_ , she finally admits. Shame threatens to outweigh the rush of confidence and pride, and she can conjure up the horror in her mother's face without much effort.

 

Ed loses. She wins.

 

Nobody can find out. Ever.

 

Slowly, her armor starts to fall away, tears prickling in her eyes, breath coming in heaving gulps. Daryl leans down a little so they are the same height, uncertainty and nervousness as clear on his face as usual, but when he speaks, she trusts in him. _Hey, we'll figure somethin' out._ His thumbs circle gently against her arm.

 

She nods, looking down at her hand on his chest, because the onslaught of kindness he is showing her feels like a tidal wave, filling her lungs and crushing her bones. _Wait here,_ he continues, _I'm gonna get somethin' for that._ With a careful touch, he skims along her cheekbone one last time. This time, it stings, and Carol flinches, but he is already marching towards the door.

 

_Daryl?_ He stops with his hand hovering above the door handle, turning to look at her. Only now does she notice how utterly tired he looks. _Thank you._

 

His reply is a sad, tight-lipped smile, the kind you give when all other expressions fail. Without another word, he slips through the door and quickly pulls it shut behind him.

 

Only now that he has gone does Carol allow her gaze to roam across the room. Being in here uninvited makes her feel like an intruder. Glued to the spot, she briefly takes in the small space, tidier than she expected. A simple desk next to the window, worn school books and papers scattered across is, leaving just enough working space. He has no computer; maybe a laptop, but she can not see it anywhere.

 

The wardrobe seems to have seen better days, green paint chipped away in too many places to count, revealing aged and dull wood beneath. Daryl's bed is unmade, and she notices that his blanket is sloppily patched up with the same fabric as his pants usually are. It fills her with a familiar aching heaviness, and she looks away quickly, noticing but ignoring the comic books that lay open on the bed. He must have been reading when she knocked.

 

On the wall above his bed, two pictures are pinned into the wallpaper. It's a dull color, one that might have been blue once upon a time. Now, it looks gray and lifeless, the very top beginning to peel off the wall.

 

There is a woman on one of the pictures, a shy smile on her face, her hair down past her shoulders. Carol guesses that she must be Daryl’s mother. Faintly, she remembers the commotion all those years ago when the Dixon's house had burned down. It had scared her, the thought of somebody burning away to nothing.

 

The other picture is of Daryl, his brother's arm wrapped around his shoulder, crossbow and rifle proudly in front of them, a deer laying at their feet. Broad smiles lighten up their faces, and it reminds Carol of all the times Ed has been the charming man she had first seen in him. All the times he had made her smile, had been kind and attentive.

 

And then she sees the blood on her palms, her own blood, and the headache begins to pound more aggressively.

 

Loud voices eventually distract her from the pain, and Carol stares at the band poster that is pinned to the door. Another loud voice echoes through the small house, but she can not make out any words that are said. It is a heated discussion, that much is clear, and fear begins to settle in the pit of her stomach.

 

But before she can worry enough to just bolt out into the night, the door opens. For one brief, terrifying moment, Carol imagines that Daryl's father is the one to come bursting through the door. She has only seen him once, as far as she can remember. Dirty hair, harsh features and a glare in his eyes unlike any she can recall.

 

But it is Daryl who slips into the room, trying to mask his sigh with the soft _thud_ of the closing door. Carol can see the tension in his shoulders, though, and notices a tattoo peaking out from beneath the sleeveless shirt he is wearing. She follows the intricate lines down to where they disappear beneath white fabric, but she can not put together what it is. Daryl turns back to her then, a first aid kit and a bag of frozen peas in his hands.

 

_Is everything alright?_ The words stumble out of her mouth and she is suddenly standing right in front of him, hands fumbling about his arms, eyes swiftly straying between Daryl and the door.

 

_Don't worry 'bout him_ , he grumbles in reassurance, suddenly looking lost standing there in his own room. Avoiding her eyes, he moves past her, gently setting the first aid kit and the frozen peas down on his bedside table. As he clears his throat, Carol realizes the feeling that is so heavy in the air in this moment, causing her skin to prickle: they are both nervous.

 

Daryl throws a brief glance over his shoulder, clearing his throat again, and then begins to pick up the comics that are scattered over his bed, tugging at the blanket, pushing away the pillow, stuffing a few paper slips into the pockets of his sweatpants. There is an empty plate near the end of the bed that Carol has missed before, only a few crumbs left to prove he had actually eaten dinner. He hastily dumps the plate onto his desk with a hefty clatter that sends a rainfall of shivers down her spine, before finally turning towards her.

 

_Sit down_ , he mumbles, cheeks flaming red, arm flailing in the general direction of his bed. There is nothing at all inappropriate about the simple gesture to Carol, but she has a feeling that this is the first time Daryl has ever had a girl, or anyone, in his room. She smiles softly at him, hoping to calm him down a little, to ease the tension between them.

 

The mattress is too soft, overused and bumpy in all the wrong places. It dips slightly when Daryl sits down next to her, keeping their usual distance. Still, he seems closer now then ever, the compassion in his eyes radiating warmth. Carol holds her smile, kneads her fingers where they rest in her lap.

 

_Might sting a little_ , Daryl mutters, lifting a damp cotton pad to her maimed face. It does sting, and she can not contain she sharp intake of breath. The rush of mumbled apologies bursts quickly from Daryl’s mouth, but she just waves her hand, dismissing them.

 

Only now does she realize that the ends of his hair are slightly wet, a few drops soaking into his white shirt. He smells different, too. Not of grease, damp earth and sweat, but something slightly less sharp, something that floods into her nostrils and calms her fluttering nerves.

 

The trust she bears for him unfolds in her chest like a butterfly, wings spanning her ribcage, and she allows her eyes to drift shut as he quietly, and expertly tends to her wounds (she pushes away the anxiety and sadness that threaten to trickle into her mind at the thought of how many times he has had to do this before – all alone, in front of a mirror).

 

Perhaps, if she only keeps her eyes closed long enough, this nightmare will end once and for all.

 

.

 

The doors of her car are wide open, and Carol allows her legs to dangle out, the soles of her sandals just barely grazing the asphalt. She has to twist her body in an awkward angle that she will surely pay for with a dull ache around her tailbone come tomorrow morning, but the breeze of fresh night air that tickles the skin of her legs where she has bunched up her pants is worth it. Fatigue begins to creep into her, quiet and on delicate feet until she suddenly realizes her head is relaying a little too much on the headrest of her driver's seat for support.

 

She licks some ketchup from her fingers, the sweetness bursting on her tongue before mingling with the grease from the fries she has been eating. There is a soft tune humming from the radio, a song that has her feet bopping slightly, but she can not recall the name of.

 

_I'm gettin outta here_ , Daryl suddenly says, and Carol realizes they have fallen into their usual comfortable silence for so long that the sound of his voice startles her. She turns her head towards him, taking a large bite of his burger, not bothering to swallow it all before continuing. _Right after graduation._

  
  
Her stomach drops, and suddenly the box of fries and chicken on her lap does not seem as appealing as it had ten minutes ago. _Where are you going to go?_ she asks, trying hard to keep her voice even, to show enthusiasm. Because she understands that this is big, that this is what they have been hesitantly dreaming of for so long now. She wants to be for him what he has been for her, a rock, support. In his voice, in his eyes, in his posture she can see his pride and his excitement, a touch of confidence that had been so completely absent when they first stumbled upon each other by the river.

 

They have changed. Lately, chance has been the big constant in Carol's life, a bright light that guides her through the night and the darkness of her days. It has been welcome. Now, she fears that change might finally take something away from her. Someone.

 

Daryl swallows heavily, wiping his greasy fingers against his jeans. _Remember Dale Horvath?_

 

Carol takes a second to think, the name sounding vaguely familiar. _Didn't he use to run the garage down on Quarry Lane?_

 

_Yeah_ , Daryl nods, taking another bite. I used ta work there during summer. _He moved away after his wife died_. Carol remember now, the obituary. She remembers Irma Horvath, a kind woman with a smile for everybody. _I looked him up, turns out he moved ta Virginia and opened a new shop._ Daryl makes a short pause, and Carol is surprised when he holds her gaze for so long. She wonders if he is searching for something in her eyes, affirmation or blame, and so she smiles kindly. Her heart beats furiously in her chest, fear and dread threatening to suffocate any positive emotion. _Called him and asked him for a job. He said yes._

  
He looks so proud of himself, a blush tinting his cheeks, and Carol feels the affection inside of her swelling, growing too large to hold captive and longer. Not caring that her fingers are greasy, she reaches out to rest her palm against his arm, giving him a light squeeze. _That's amazing, I'm so happy for you._ She really, truly is, she knows. But what she truly feels right now is despair. It seems silly, even dependent, but the thought of losing him now... She misses him already, a small void beginning to spread in her heart. But he deserves this, and so she forces herself to keep talking. _And proud, you did the right thing._

 

She knows she needs to leave, eventually. To keep her secret, to protect herself. To get away, because this town is nothing but haunting memories now, tying her to her past. It is the very same for Daryl. She remembers what he once said, the future he envisioned for himself. G _onna be just nothing, s' who I am._ The words still ring sharply in her memory. That very day they had talked about leaving, about how they both could. Stoking hope in the dying embers of hope.

  
  
_I was thinkin..._ Daryl continues, cheeks almost on fire, eyes downcast, fidgeting with a napkin. _Maybe... Maybe ya' wanna come with me?_

 

Carol takes apart the idea, unties it, peels away all the layers until she gets to the core. It is a foolish, naive plan, but so is every other alternative she can conjure up in her mind. His words ring true, a suggestion so genuine, and she understands how much it cost him to even verbalize the idea that he has surely been chewing on for days. She wants to laugh at the simplicity of it all, at how ridiculously easy the choice is to make. But she knows him well enough to keep the laughter bottled up, not wanting to scare him away.

  
  
_I'd like that_ , she says instead, smiling widely at him when he looks up and stares at her with wonder. _Just think about it_. He seems to do that, eyes suddenly drifting off, and Carol begins to really grasp at the thin straws of his idea. _We'd be free_. Her fingers trail along the curve of the wheel, black leather beginning to crack in some places. _We can just... leave_. Her voice is a whisper now, eyes drifting towards the night sky. _I want that._

  
  
_You can_ , Daryl replies immediately, and somehow his hand finds hers, greasy fingers locking smoothly. She does not let go. _We will._

 

.

 

They stop being a secret after that. Whatever _they_ are.

 

Lori's eyes nearly pop out of her head the first time Carol brings (a blushing, fumbling, stumbling) Daryl to their usual Wednesday-diner-pancake-dinner. Andrea looks mildly surprised, but bursts out laughing in the end. Daryl barely manages to say a word all night, and Carol knows she is up for a long explanation later on, judging by the smirks and blatant question marks in her friends' eyes. Still, it is the best night she has had with her friends in a long time.

 

She feels free.

 

Daryl starts to sit at their table during lunch breaks, and after a few days, people eventually stop staring. Everyone except Ed. His eyes burn like flames whenever they pass in the hallway, and Carol can see a familiar, well-concealed flash in them when she is with Daryl, one that makes her flinch, a phantom pain shooting throughout her entire body.

 

He never says anything or makes a wrong move, though. She knows it's because he can not afford to get into a fight with _Daryl Dixon_ just weeks before graduation (in his mind, she is sure, he has killed him a hundred times over, and her as well, or whatever cruel punishment he deemed fit).

 

 

Despite all honesty, there are a few things that remain secret. Neither of them is ready to reveal it all to the world, everything they have built over the past few months.

 

The scars only they have seen, whether in the flesh or just through each others eyes.

 

The way their hands seem to be linked whenever they are alone. It comes naturally now, and Carol can not remember when the intimacy of their friendship changed. Daryl does not shy away from her touch anymore, his calloused palm falling into place against her own without question or doubt.

 

Their plans for after graduation remain shrouded and vague whenever they come up in conversation (her parents still do not seem overly pleased, and she has had more than a handful of exhausting phone calls with her sister – _don't throw away your life like that, not for a guy like Daryl Dixon_ ).

 

And the biggest secret of them all, one that must not be revealed until after she has left this town, and Ed, behind completely. The baby girl that is not Daryl's, but has somehow become _theirs_. It is a secret that is growing harder and harder to maintain, wide clothes and gaining weight only doing so much to hide what no longer wants to be hidden.

 

 

On prom night, they lay on the grass by the river, Daryl’s poncho bunched up, tucked securely beneath her head like a pillow. Bare feet smooth over the lush grass, and Carol has pulled up her shirt, a warm breeze tickling the swell of her stomach.

 

Hands entwined, Daryl's thumb strays away from the back of her hand, grazing ever so slightly against her exposed ribcage. She laughs, squirming against the wave of tickles that raises the hairs on her arms. The grin on his lips in the light of the moon and the stars sets fire to her heart. Then a familiar flutter inside of her distracts her, eyes sparkling as she smiles down towards her stomach.

 

Carol thinks about the packed boxes in her room, ready to be loaded into her car. She considers the small apartment they have rented, just down the road from Dale Horvath's garage, ready to be painted and furnished and made _home_.

 

_I never really had a family_ , Daryl murmurs into the night, and when Carol turns to look at him, he firmly holds her gaze. The implications of what he is saying are tremendous, resting on both their shoulders, but there is a light glowing there, as well. People will make assumptions, anyway, as they already are. Her friends, her parents, everybody. What matters is not the truth, she realizes, not even the truths they are trying to hide. What matters is what they have right now, what they can promise. What they can _make_ true.

 

When she kisses him, he does not shy away as she might have excepted. In the end, it comes as naturally as everything else. For a brief moment he stills, body frozen, a surprised gasp escaping him. But then he moves, a careful hand finding her neck, and when he responds (eagerly, softly), Carol can not imagine a better prom, or a better day, or a better life.

 

 

Perhaps her world had to come crushing down and burn away before she could finally find herself and become the person she always thought she should be be.

 

In the wreckage, she builds her life anew.

 


End file.
